Pairing: Harry/Draco, but it isn't the point.
Warnings: Violence, non-con, humiliation, character death.
Disclaimer: JKR owns. I only play. You do not sue.
Length: 13000 words
Summary: In which Draco Malfoy wakes up in his bed, but no one is home.
Beta: pixies (for like half of it lskdjlsj *fails*)
Concrit: Always welcome and appreciated.
A sunbeam slid across the duvet cover, prying Draco's eyes open.
"Mrgh," said Draco, and turned away. "Too early," he told the sunbeam, which now crept cautiously amongst the tiny dragons carved into the headboard.
He had woken just this way, in this room, so many times before. As the thought came to him, Draco's mind flooded with yesterday's memories -- the evacuation of Hogwarts, staying behind, Potter at the Room of Hidden Things, Fiendfyre, Crabbe.
It hardly seemed possible that Draco should wake one day in this room full of sunlight, in a world where Vincent Crabbe breathed no more. Crabbe and Goyle had been pillars, unquestionable truths in a world full of lies. He shuddered, thinking about the escape, about going back for Goyle. He could have died, but Draco had not been able to bear the thought of losing Goyle, too.
Another thought drowned out all else. The war was over. The Dark Lord, defeated. Harry Potter -- scrawny, dirty, defiant, facing the Dark Lord with quiet confidence that Draco hated him for. The Muggle-loving specky hero.
Draco lurched out of bed and slammed the bathroom door as hard as he could behind him. Draco's mother and Potter had had a quiet conversation just before the Malfoys had left Hogwarts. She had asked him something, and he had looked at Draco and his father for a long time before nodding. Mother had touched Potter's shoulder briefly -- his Mother had touched that freak! He should've been on his knees thanking her for such an honour, but Potter had merely given her a stupid little smile.
"Did he expect us to be grateful?" he asked his own reflection, stunned at how bitter his own voice rang. Still, he wondered how his mother had persuaded Potter to let them go. He had been sure that his father at least would end up in Azkaban. Last night, over supper, Mother had informed them that they were free to go as they pleased, but she would not explain the reasons for Potter's magnanimity.
He washed, dressed, and went downstairs in search of breakfast. The table was set for one and the house-elf stood in attendance by the dining room's low windowsill. Knobby was the only elf that remained to them since Dobby's escape, and he had no tongue. Draco couldn't even ask him where his parents were. Useless thing.
Draco sat down and unfolded The Daily Prophet, bracing himself for the inevitable breathless headlines about Potter's victory.
A photograph of Granger and Weasley walking alongside Hagrid greeted him instead. Draco glanced at the headline.
HARRY POTTER'S FUNERAL TO BE HELD ON FRIDAY
"What?" Draco looked at Knobby. "Is this your idea of a joke, then, elf?"
Knobby's bulbous eyes watered, and he shook his head with vigour that belied his age. The house-elf had lied to Draco once about where his mother had hidden his birthday present. Naturally, Draco had ordered him to rip out his own tongue for such an affront. His mother hadn't been pleased, but Knobby was only an elf. An elf who knew he'd lose an eye or a finger next time he dared do something so unthinkable.
Draco scanned the article beneath the headline, his eyebrows drawing closer and closer together in puzzlement.
HARRY POTTER'S FUNERAL TO BE HELD ON FRIDAY
In an exclusive interview, Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley, best friends of the late Harry Potter, revealed that the no less late Lord Voldemort had made seven Horcruxes. For information on these foul creations, revealed in the unabridged interview, titled "Harry Would Have Wanted You to Know", please turn to page five.
At dusk on Friday, Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, shall be buried alongside his parents in the Godric's Hollow church cemetery. What does that have to do with Horcruxes, you ask? Only this: Harry Potter's famous scar held the seventh Horcrux of Lord Voldemort. The boy and his friends found and destroyed the other six Horcruxes, and then Harry went into the Forbidden Forest where his enemy waited. But he did not go there to fight. He went there so that Lord Voldemort would unwittingly destroy his last protection and become vulnerable to death once more.
Harry Potter went to the Forbidden Forest ready to die. He sacrificed himself so that the wizarding world could endure in peace. In doing so, he invoked an ancient, powerful protection over every one of us, the same protection that Harry's mother Lily gave him as she died protecting him. After Harry fell in the Forbidden Forest, Lord Voldemort had his body carried to Hogwarts. As Harry's friends ran out, disbelieving, to look upon the fallen boy, Lord Voldemort cast the Killing Curse at one of them. And the curse rebounded. Just like it had on the 31st of October, 1980, when he had tried to murder Harry Potter for the first time. But this time, Lord Voldemort no longer had the protection of his Horcruxes. He died with a look of disbelief upon his face, his would-be victim, Neville Longbottom, standing unharmed and astonished before him.
It was the ultimate sacrifice, an act of love so all-encompassing that words are not fit vessels for its message. On Friday at dusk, everyone in the wizarding world should come and pay their last respects to the Boy Who...
Lowering the newspaper, Draco blinked. The Dark Lord's Killing Curse had rebounded, all right, but it had done so off Potter, not Longbottom. Draco saw it happen! What was going on? He glared at the Prophet, and another headline caught his eye. This one was small, and the article beneath it was terse, as though the writer hadn't thought it worth the ink.
MALFOYS SENT TO AZKABAN
Yesterday evening, Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy were arrested at their Wiltshire manor and taken to Azkaban. They were making preparations to escape, but the Aurors, led by Kingsley Shacklebolt, apprehended them. Lucius Malfoy is a notorious Death Eater who has tortured Muggles and used the Unforgivable Curses indiscriminately. Narcissa Malfoy is responsible for the death of Harry Potter at the hands of Lord Voldemort (for details about her treachery, see the exclusive "Harry Would Have Wanted You to Know" interview on page 3). Their son Draco remains free, but the Department of Magical Law Enforcement is gathering evidence against him and we expect him to stand trial for his crimes soon.
It all came back to that Weasley-Granger interview on page three. His mind was suspended somewhere above his body, not really participating in what he was doing, and Draco realised that he was dreaming. One of those vivid dreams that clutched reality in their fists and lingered well after awakening. He flipped to page three lazily. It was another elaborate nightmare, though he supposed he wouldn't mind at all if he awakened to the glad tidings of Potter's demise. He could have done without the bit about his parents.
The interview was more of the same rubbish about Horcruxes and something called the Deathly Hallows, with many a mention of Granger wiping tears from her ugly Mudblood face. Apparently, Potter had died in the Forbidden Forest, where he'd gone to his oh-so-noble sacrifice, and then he'd come back to life, according to Hagrid. Of course. Because dimwitted half-giants could be trusted to see things as they really were. Narcissa Malfoy had been asked to ensure that Potter truly was dead, and she'd alerted the Death Eaters that he wasn't. The Dark Lord had cast the Killing Curse again, obviously, and this time Potter hadn't returned from beyond the grave. This was the damning evidence against his mother? Hagrid's word that she'd betrayed Potter, who had died and come back to life? The Ministry would never make it stick.
Draco put the Prophet down with a scowl. Of course the Ministry would never make it stick; this was a dream. A dream! Potter hadn't died and come back to life. He'd defeated the Dark Lord at Hogwarts; Draco had seen it.
Still, his parents weren't here.
That could mean anything. They might've gone into Diagon Alley, to check on their Gringotts vault. Or perhaps they had gone to visit the Parkinsons and hadn't wanted to wake Draco. It could mean anything. Draco shoved his chair back and sprinted towards the east wing, up three floors to his parents' bedroom. He hadn't been here for years, and the faint smell of myrrh in the air made him feel like a child again, creeping through the corridors to find his mother, the only one who could make the nightmares go away.
His parents' bedroom was empty and quiet, the green curtains around the bed drawn tight. Draco's cot still stood in the corner by the window, unused for seventeen years but still polished daily.
"Who's Mummy's favourite baby boy?" Narcissa's cool fingers traced hearts upon the boy's soft belly, and the boy smiled, smiled, smiled for all he was worth, because she was his world, this woman with a gentle voice and eyes of palest blue.
It was Draco's earliest memory, and also his happiest. Nothing had mattered then but his mother's smile. There had been no expectations for Draco to sit just there, to wear just that, to speak just so. No threats to his family's safety. He had been conceived and born here in this bedroom. There was no safer place in the world.
Now its air was thick with empty echoes of silence so complete that Draco's every breath exploded in the stillness. His parents were gone. Not to Gringotts. The Prophet article was true. He could feel it: the wrongness, the chokehold of loneliness holding him at the threshold, afraid to step inside and shatter the silence with a footfall or a whisper.
Who's Mummy's favourite baby boy?
Draco wanted to flee, back to the dining room, to the house-elf who could answer no questions, to the newspaper whose answers were worse than death. Had he dreamt what had happened, then? Was he still dreaming? What was happening to him?
Something glinted at the foot of his parents' bed. Draco walked over and crouched down to investigate. A black glass ball, about the size of a melon, rested on the floor. When Draco's fingers brushed against its surface, the ball's innards began to glow with an eerie violet light, and the bedroom seemed to darken, as though the thing was feeding off whatever scant light was available. Draco pulled his hand back and the glow winked out, but he could see a spark still darkling inside.
Draco unrolled his robe sleeves and manoeuvred the ball into his arms. He didn't know what it was, but it was not supposed to be here. Cold even through his robes, the thing seemed to weigh more than it should have, considering its size -- whatever it was made of was more than black glass. Draco carried it into his father's study and set it upon the writing table. Despite the smooth polish, the ball did not roll around; it just sat there, like a giant creature's malevolent eye.
Draco pressed a hesitant fingertip to it. The violet glow came back, but nothing else happened. Standing here in his father's place of power made Draco feel braver, though, and he pressed one of his palms to the top of the ball. Sharp, blazing tendrils of light shot from the centre to the surface, crisscrossing without pattern. Still, all the ball seemed to do was emit that bizarre glow. Draco didn't believe that his parents would have kept a mere gaudy trinket in their bedroom. He drew his mother's wand.
The instant his wand tip touched the ball, the violet light coalesced into a fog. The black surface became transparent, and shapes began to rise up out of the ball, all around Draco until he realised he was no longer at Malfoy Manor. He was aboard the Hogwarts Express, looking into a compartment. Three figures stood inside, just past the threshold. One of them was Draco, but very small. Eleven, by the looks of it -- Crabbe and Goyle had been taller than him then. Draco's chest tightened upon seeing Crabbe, looking about as menacing as a boy of eleven could manage. Further past himself and his friends, he saw the eleven-year-old Potter, with Weasley looming behind him like he always would from that day forward. Neither Potter nor Weasley seemed to notice the grown-up Draco, though they should have been looking right at him. What was this place?
Past-Draco was talking. "So it's you, is it?"
"Yes," said Potter, glancing with apprehension at Crabbe and Goyle.
"Oh, this is Crabbe and this is Goyle," said past-Draco. "And my name's Malfoy. Draco Malfoy."
"Think my name's funny, do you?" drawled past-Draco. "No need to ask who you are. My father told me all the Weasleys have red hair, freckles, and more children than they can afford." He turned back to Potter. "You'll soon find out some wizarding families are much better than others, Potter. You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there."
Draco winced as his past self extended a hand for Potter to shake. He had forgotten all about this particular moment of embarrassment.
Potter sneered. "I don't shake hands with filthy Death Eater scum, thanks."
"What?" exclaimed Draco, but none of the boys seemed to hear him. Someone else had said something in the meantime, and Weasley was laughing, his eyes glinting with malice. Potter pulled out a wand -- a wand? Wisps of sickly green smoke issued from the tip, forming a clawed hand, and rushed for past-Draco's throat.
"People like your father shouldn't breed," intoned Potter. Crabbe and Goyle were wrestling with the green smoke hand; past-Draco was screaming for help. In the background, Weasley laughed and laughed and laughed...
Draco's eyes were still full of the dreamlike train scene when he realised it had disappeared. He stood inside an ancient hall lined with columns made of the same dark glass as the ball he had found. Was it some kind of window to the past, one that distorted everything? The scene on the train, whilst terribly embarrassing for Draco, had not been that horrifying. He was quite certain he would have remembered if what he'd just seen had really happened.
The air around him was stiller than he knew air could be. There was no end to the hall, no ceiling, not even a floor. Draco's feet just seemed to stop at an arbitrary point. Physically, he felt... nothing. His heart beat fast and steady, but that was his only indication that he was still alive. As he glanced around, wondering how on earth he could get back to his father's study, Draco became aware of light shimmering in between the glass columns -- the precise shade of violet inside the glass ball.
Carefully, he took a step, and then another. His feet made no sound, but he moved forward, closer to one of the light-vortices between the two nearest columns. As he watched, the vortex grew larger and tilted towards him in a whirl of sickly purple.
After a moment of complete blindness, he found himself standing in the shadow of a tree, looking out onto a clearing. The only light came from the barest sliver of moonlight filtering through the canopy above. A light appeared not far away from where Draco stood, and soon, a bobbing lantern emerged out of the shadows. Potter -- still a boy of about eleven -- held the lantern aloft, and past-Draco trailed behind him with a sulky expression on his pale face. Next to past-Draco slinked that useless dog of Hagrid's.
"Look," murmured Potter, pointing. A bright shape materialised on the ground, gleaming in the lantern's soft light. A dead unicorn, its legs sticking out at odd angles. Something whispered from the bushes at the edge of the clearing, and a hooded figure crawled out. A moment later, it reached the corpse and began to drink from the wound in the unicorn's side, making horrible smacking noises that echoed forever in the darkness. Past-Draco made a small noise, and the figure raised its head, turned to look at the two boys and the dog.
Potter grabbed past-Draco by the elbow and shoved him forward. "Take him!" he cried, and ran off in the direction of the castle, dropping the lantern.
Moments later, past-Draco barrelled after Potter, shouting at the top of his lungs, and Draco remembered -- he had done that. Obviously. What kind of idiot would stay and watch some Dark creature drink unicorn's blood? Unicorns and little boys were all the same to Dark things. Potter, however, had not run first. Potter had stayed behind, like the idiot he was -- hadn't there been a rumour in Slytherin for weeks that Potter had turned into a werewolf that night? Yes, there had. Draco had started that rumour.
"This is all wrong," he began, but the scene dissolved, like a Pensieve memory would if you didn't follow the memory's owner wherever he went. Draco stood in the dark glass hallway once more, beginning to understand that the crystal ball was a device that showed the past, but twisted. To what purpose? To whose benefit? Another vortex beckoned, and this time Draco stepped towards it, because he intended to find out.
He stood in the Great Hall, a few steps behind that peacock, Gilderoy Lockhart. His past self and Potter were facing each other, both looking positively murderous.
"Serpensortia!" shouted past-Draco with a look of triumph. A black snake thudded to the floor between the two boys, and Potter seemed to freeze where he stood as the animal rose to strike.
"Don't move, Potter," said Professor Snape with an indulgent smirk. "I'll get rid of it..."
"Allow me!" shouted Lockhart. There was a loud bang, and the snake flew several feet up, then landed on the floor again. It hissed with fury and headed straight for the Mudblood Hufflepuff whose name Draco couldn't quite recall.
Potter hissed, and the snake paused. Potter hissed again, and the snake turned and headed for past-Draco. Potter kept hissing at it, sounding encouraging, and past-Draco stood rooted to his spot, seemingly unable to move.
"Teach you how to mess with Parselmouths, you little prat," murmured Potter, and let out another hiss, the loudest yet. The snake charged. Past-Draco gave a frightened screech and dove to the ground.
"ENOUGH!" bellowed Professor Snape, and the snake vanished. "What was the meaning of that, Potter?"
Potter gave an insolent little shrug. "You shouldn't have told him to use such a dangerous spell."
Draco laughed incredulously, but no one heard him.
Sunlight streamed into the Hippogriff paddock, and past-Draco stood patting that Buckbeak beast. The scar on Draco's arm smarted at the sight. What he was about to witness his past self do had been dumb, no doubt, but it was still Hagrid's fault. Any moment now, past-Draco would say something rude to the creature. But he didn't. He just stood there, patting its beak, looking a bit apprehensive, as though wanting to back away.
Draco jumped as someone stepped up next to him. Potter. He was watching past-Draco and Buckbeak, eyes narrowed. "Get him, Buckbeak," he said, quietly, and made an odd clicking noise with his tongue. The beast reared and slashed at past-Draco's arm. Blood sprayed everywhere as past-Draco curled up on the grass, moaning. "I'm dying!" he shouted. "I'm dying, look at me! It's killed me!"
Next to Draco, Potter was laughing unpleasantly even as the rest of the class panicked.
Draco was following past-Draco along one of the dungeon corridors. Past-Draco kept glancing over his shoulder, as though afraid of pursuit. Draco didn't remember this at all -- he didn't remember wandering the dungeons without Crabbe and Goyle close behind.
"Malfoy!" came a shout. "Fight, you coward!"
"Fuck off," muttered past-Draco, speeding up his pace. But at the next turn he took, Potter waited.
"Thought you could run, didn't you? Draw your wand. I'd beat you senseless the proper way, but you wouldn't put up much of a fight."
"Fuck off, Potter," said past-Draco. "Leave me alone."
"Not so brave without your cronies, are you? Ron and Hermione are keeping them tied up for me while we settle."
"There's nothing to settle, you arse, now leave it!"
"Nothing to settle? You dressing up as a Dementor to try and sabotage my game -- nothing to settle? You tattling on me to Snape when I went to Hogsmeade -- nothing to settle? Draw your fucking wand, you cowardly little rat."
"Fuck off, Potter. My father--"
"Your father can suck my cock," said Potter, and spat at past-Draco's feet casually. "After your mother's done, of course."
Past-Draco lunged at him, not even bothering to draw his wand, but Potter had been right -- Draco had never mastered the art of Muggle duelling, because it was a sleazy sport fit for Mudbloods only. Potter overpowered past-Draco easily and shoved him hard against the wall. He drew back his fist and punched past-Draco in the gut repeatedly until past-Draco collapsed to the floor, barely stirring. Still snarling, Potter kicked him. "Told you to draw your wand, you idiot. Make trouble for me again and next time, I won't spare your pretty face."
Draco fled, somehow, back to the glass columns. That incident had been a complete fabrication; nothing even remotely like it had ever happened. What was this place. Another light-point beckoned.
"Oh yeah, you were staying with them this summer, weren't you, Potter?" sneered past-Draco. "So tell me, is his mother really that porky, or is it just the picture?"
Draco felt a bit embarrassed on his own behalf -- talk about juvenile.
"You know your mother, Malfoy?" said Potter, holding on to the back of Weasley's robes, and Draco could see something in his eyes, something he'd seen when Potter had dared suggest that his mother would suck his--
What? No -- that hadn't actually happened.
"That expression she's got, like she's got dung under her nose?" Potter continued. "Has she always looked like that, or was it just because you were with her?"
Past-Draco's face went pink, and crazily, Draco could tell that he was thinking back to the dungeon-incident-that-never-happened. "Don't you dare insult my mother, Potter."
"Keep your fat mouth shut, then," said Potter, turning away, clearly secure in his knowledge that he'd bested Draco yet again. In retrospect, Draco had to admit that Potter's retort had carried far more sting than 'your mother is fat'.
Past-Draco drew his wand and fired -- a rubber fist shot out of his wand-tip and went for Potter's lower back. Annoying, but not painful. Potter whirled round, drawing his own wand, but then--
BANG! Past-Draco turned into a small, white ferret.
"OH NO YOU DON'T, LADDIE!" Moody limped down the marble staircase, wand out.
Potter laughed. "Good one, professor." He pointed his wand at the ferret and murmured an incantation, causing the ferret to squeak in pain and try to scurry out of the way. Potter laughed, and lifted the ferret into the air with his wand, then smacked it brutally against a wall. Had a thing about throwing people at walls, Potter did.
Again, what was Draco thinking? This isn't how it had happened. It had been Moody, not Potter--
Draco stood outside the castle, shivering. It was the night of the Yule Ball, in fourth year -- he still remembered the twinkling rosebushes. He, Crabbe, and Goyle had gone behind one of them to smoke coltsfoot for the first time, and Pansy had raised a huge uproar about Draco's breath smelling like a horse's arse, afterwards. He peeked around the bush where they'd hidden--
Past-Draco was there, all right, but he wasn't smoking coltsfoot. Nor was he with Crabbe and Goyle. His arms were up over his head, disappearing into the rosebush as though bound to it, the front of his dress robes was stuffed into his mouth, and Potter crouched low over him. At first, Draco couldn't work out what Potter was doing, but as he stepped closer, knowing that the two boys wouldn't hear or see him in this place, he sprang back, aghast. Potter was wanking past-Draco, rough, furious.
"See, I knew you'd like this," rasped Potter. "No wonder you kept pulling my pigtails since you first laid eyes on me."
Past-Draco made a protesting noise and bucked his hips upwards, shaking his head, but his cock was hard in Potter's hand; that much was obvious.
"Oh, you love it. I bet Parkinson has never done this -- too proper, that one. Waiting for you to marry her, I reckon."
Past-Draco moaned and arched into Potter's hand.
"That's right," crowed Potter, watching past-Draco's face. "Who's the real Hogwarts Champion now, Malfoy?"
Draco backed away, not wanting to watch any longer...
Past-Draco was lying on his side in the corner of a disused classroom, and Potter stood over him with a mean-looking belt in hand.
"You thought me letting you come all over yourself last year was some kind of concession? You've cost me my Quidditch career, you fucking prick."
Past-Draco shuddered under the blow, but made no noise.
"That's it for today's lesson," spat Potter, and began sliding the belt back into his jeans. "Don't fucking make me repeat it."
Past-Draco struggled up, blood dribbling to the floor from a wound in his temple. "M-m-my father..." he managed.
Potter laughed derisively. "Your father what? We've had this conversation already, about your father and your mother, too."
"I'll tell Professor Umbridge," said past-Draco, lifting his chin. "You'll be expelled."
"Oh, of course. Go ahead and tell Umbridge. Make sure to tell her about the Yule Ball; she'll love hearing that. I'm sure your father will, too, when I tell him how pretty you moaned for me. And then I'll tell him how I punished you and you lay there and took it... like the pussy you are."
"I hate you."
While that statement was certainly true, Draco realised that the creature in these... events simply wasn't Potter. It couldn't be. He didn't talk or behave like Potter -- the only thing he shared with Potter was an uncanny physical resemblance.
"Where's your Inquisitorial Squad now?"
Draco almost didn't want to look, but he did anyway. Potter had past-Draco against the wall in the same classroom as before.
"Let go of me, Potter--"
"Or what? Or what? You'll 'have' me? Was that what you said to me after I put your useless father in jail?"
Past-Draco struggled, rage contorting his face. "Fuck-- off--"
"You want to have me?" Potter waved his wand, and past-Draco fell to his knees. Potter began undoing his belt. Draco began wondering how he could force himself to get out, because he could see where this was going, and he did not want to see--
Potter's jeans pooled at his feet. "Have me, then, Malfoy. Go on." He thrust forwards against past-Draco's face, leaving a wet smear across his cheek. Past-Draco turned his head away, looking revolted. Draco didn't blame him.
"What's wrong, Malfoy? Don't tell me you've never done this before. Your father didn't walk around looking that smug for no reason at all, does he?"
Draco expected his past self to attack Potter immediately -- he wanted to, even though this was not Potter and not Draco and it was not real. But past-Draco didn't move, and Draco realised Potter had frozen him, too. Now, Potter stood over him, stroking his cock and keeping it at past-Draco's eye level.
"Watch closely, that's right," mocked Potter. "This is how it's done properly. Get a little practise over the next twenty years, and your Daddy will be so pleased."
Tears streamed from past-Draco's eyes, and Draco wondered what was going through his head.
Draco had been hoping for a respite from Potter's endless sexual deviance, but in the next scene he walked into, past-Draco was laid out on a desk, naked, and Potter, also naked, was kneeling over him, fucking his mouth. It looked not the least bit consensual: past-Draco was bound, spread-eagled, and it looked like his jaws had been forced open by magic. Past-Draco's fingers and toes were twitching, as though he were trying to free himself, but it was obviously useless.
"Fuck, you shouldn't make it so difficult," wheezed Potter. "So fucking good, Malfoy. You're so good at this." He gave a shallow little thrust forward and moaned, then went back to thrusting, faster, deeper, and then pulled out with a wet plop and started wanking, holding his cock over past-Draco's face. Come dribbled down onto past-Draco's cheeks and nose, and Potter stared down at his handiwork with a horrible grin. "That's for breaking my nose," he said, climbing off Draco. "A reminder, if you like, of your place in this life."
Past-Draco's eyes rolled back in his head and his fingers stopped twitching.
"I should just leave him like that. Let Filch find him," muttered Potter to himself, smirking.
Draco stepped right into haphazard sprays of water, which didn't touch him at all.
"SECTUMSEMPRA!" bellowed Potter's voice, and Draco saw his past self go down, spraying blood everywhere, turning the water pink.
Somewhere, out of sight, Potter was laughing. Draco closed his eyes.
"I really liked making you bleed like that," said Potter in a smarmy sort of voice. Draco shuddered, almost afraid to look, but opened his eyes anyway.
Past-Draco was naked and tied up again, but this time he lay on his side, with his hands and feet bound in front of him. There were bruises all over his pale skin -- some still blue, others purpling and yellowing. Scars from the Sectumsempra curse crisscrossed his chest and neck, still pink. His face was all Draco recognised -- that body belonged to a stranger. It was too broken to belong to Draco Malfoy.
"Thought about gagging you," said Potter, stroking past-Draco's arm with two fingers. "But I really liked hearing you scream in that bathroom." He leaned closer and licked past-Draco's shoulder. "So desperate, so frightened. Like you believe I could kill you."
Past-Draco moved his shoulder, trying to shake Potter off.
"Oh, if you insist," said Potter, and let his jeans drop. He stepped up behind past-Draco, and Draco closed his eyes, then opened them again. He wouldn't. Would he? Did it matter? This hadn't happened. Potter was spreading past-Draco's arse cheeks apart, rubbing the head of his cock against the hole. He was breathing fast, his chest flushed a dark pink.
"This," breathed Potter. "Should have done this to begin with." He thrust, and past-Draco screamed. Potter grabbed a fistful of his hair with his free hand and pulled. "Oh God, yeah," he exhaled, and pulled back. He thrust again, and past-Draco screamed, shrill and agonised. "Fuck," grunted Potter, leaning forwards a bit, getting a better grip on Draco's hair. "Love it when you scream for me."
Past-Draco was screaming himself hoarse, but Potter just kept fucking him, relentless, that horrible grin on his face like a mask. "Take it and fucking like it," he growled, and drove forwards even harder, rocking the desk and making it thump against the floor. Past-Draco let out a gurgling sound, and his head snapped back--
"NO!" shouted Draco, unable to look any longer, his stomach dropping like he was about to vomit. He wanted to save himself despite knowing this wasn't real. But his mind was obviously acknowledging that it was real on some level, otherwise he wouldn't have acted. He ran at the pair, wanting to knock Potter out of the way, but instead fell forever into darkness as he ran, and the two boys vanished. Draco's outstretched palms hit polished wood and his knees banged painfully against same.
Continued in Part 2